


Harry: The Album

by karaokegal



Category: Mamma Mia! (2008)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, British Character, British Politics, Canon Het Relationship, Dancing, F/M, Het and Slash, Inspired by Music, M/M, Male Slash, Multi, POV Bisexual Character, Paris (City), Romance, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karaokegal/pseuds/karaokegal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Bright's search for love and beauty in five vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry: The Album

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jennaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennaria/gifts).



> Thanks to [vanillafluffy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy%22) for Beta services. Thank-you to my recipient for the chance to wallow in ABBA songs for a month. I hope you enjoy the results.

Chapter 1-A New Tomorrow

Even before he was fully awake, Harry sensed the boy was still in bed with him. He smiled a sleepy, but deeply contented smile.

He’d half expected to wake up alone, suffering an almighty hangover, grasping for the name of his bed-mate of the night before. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had regrets for the names forgotten and the faces never seen again, but not for the nights themselves. Those he treasured; every one.

Harry Bright had always worshipped at the altar of beauty; art and music, men and women. He longed to possess it all, by sight and hearing and occasionally by touch. If he could take this whole island, with its stunning sea and sky, back to London with him, he certainly would. His senses had been overwhelmed by mixture of timelessness and the joy of the young people, not to mention the pungent cooking smells and the music of the Aegean.

Instead, he would leave a piece of his heart here with Donna, just as lovely as the memories he’d clung to for all these years. Another part of him would go with the stunning young woman he might have fathered and the equally gorgeous man she was about to spend her future with. 

Then there was the boy. He was a physical manifestation of the beauty of Kalokairi and the spirit of the people he’d met here; warm and welcoming, full of love and song. He’d seen it all in those haunting black eyes. They somehow found his in the midst of the madness that had exploded across the whole island, shortly after he escaped the maurauding hens. They were lovely, but far too young, and not what he was looking for so soon after realising why Sophie had invited him to the wedding.

Still stunned by the news, Harry had recognised the boy who’d brought him his drink in the taverna and heard the message that the night and the music were trying to send him about finding a man. 

Not just any man. Harry had never been indiscriminate. The island was fully of love and beauty, but this boy was the most beautiful of them all and therefore the only one for Harry. He’d rather be alone with his shadows than settle for anything less. The question was whether the Gods, new or ancient would bless him this particular night, under the twinkling Greek stars.

Eyes met. Hands reached out. Fingers touched. The first contact was electric. Harry lost himself in the sensuality of that moment. He couldn’t tell if he was being pulled closer or doing the pulling himself. His arms encircled the boy’s waist and he felt hot hands snaking up around his neck. They moved together in time to the music, night heat surrounding them and rising off their bodies. 

Harry’s shirt, already soaked with sweat, became far too confining and was peeled off and tossed aside. Now chests could press against one another, hands sliding over bare skin, fingers moving just below waistbands and skirting the edge of decency. The music seemed to be speeding up as other dancers whirled around them, but their swaying slowed to the merest suggestion of motion. 

Harry was still vaguely aware of the festivities going on, but his focus had narrowed to the beauty of the young man pressed so tightly against him and the urgent need for release that was building up. He’d completely lost track of where exactly on the island the dance had taken them or the whereabouts of any of the others. Going back to Villa Donna wasn’t remotely feasible, even if he could get through the crowd or find his way.

Luckily, his dance partner seemed willing to take some control of the situation. Without much of a common language beyond what their hands and tongues and pounding hearts were saying, he managed to bring Harry to a small house on a cobbled side street that reminded Harry of his Parisian wanderings from that blessed summer of so many years ago. 

There was no time to light candles, and although Harry would have liked to see the boy’s face as they made love, it wasn’t necessary. The features were already emblazoned in his mind and he could see the perfectly formed lips and sleek black hair even with his eyes closed. 

The hands that had been caressing him gently throughout their musically-inspired courtship became more demanding, removing his remaining clothes, letting Harry know there was no need to hold back. In the forgiving blackness of night, he allowed himself a full-throated passion, a complete surrender to the beauty of the boy writhing under him. The buttoned-down frustrations of his London persona evaporated. He had his man after midnight and into the early morning hours and it was absolutely spectacular. 

Now came the morning and the reckoning. What exactly would he see when he opened his eyes? Would the beauty become another wistful memory? Might as well be brave about it, he told himself. It was a long day ahead, regardless.

He blinked his eyes open to find the morning sun streaming through a small window near the bed and his head hurting far less than it had any right to be after the amount of Ouzo he’d consumed. 

“Kalimera.”

Harry turned toward the voice. The boy was lying next to him propped up on one arm, easily putting to shame any of the Greek statues Harry had spent so many hours admiring in the British Museum.

He wanted to say something, but whatever Greek he’d once had was hopelessly inadequate to the task, especially when he still didn’t have a name to use in greeting or departure. 

“You are…” Harry murmured softly, not sure how much would be understood and thinking that there were multiple ways the sentence could end. He touched the boy’s shoulder in a mixture of gesture and caress.

“Petros” he replied. 

Of course. A beautiful name for a beautiful boy, no to mention the name of the Apostle Peter himself. His Peter was a rock as well, his muscular body could have been carved out of the beautiful mountains surrounding the island itself. 

Somehow the next words out of his mouth were “Hasta manana,” both the wrong language and the wrong sentiment, yet oddly appropriate.  
They would certainly meet again, but for now there was Petros’ job at the taverna and Harry’s responsibilities. Consequences to be faced; truths to be told. A daughter, a wedding and an old debt to be repaid. Yet there was also the beauty of this newly formed…whatever it might turn out to be, and the few more moments he could spend in this bed. 

“Do you know who I am?” This was both a philosophical question and a plea. 

He wasn’t sure Petros had the answer. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to expect him to. Harry sighed deeply, preparing to get up and dress in whatever garments were still in his possession, until he was stopped, by a strong hand, letting him know that he was not as alone as he’d felt when he arrived on the Island, and that he might have a date for the wedding after all. 

“Your name is Harry.”

@@@@@

Chapter 2-Seventh Heaven

Harry’s first two loves were art and music, but by the age of thirteen it was clear that his personal gift was for the latter.

Not that he didn’t have an eye for color, or an appreciation of shape and form. It was just that when it came to creating his own works, he lacked any discipline. So great was his passion for finding the perfect shade of blue to match the patch of sky he remembered glimpsing from his pram on a single Sunday outing that he might lose hours mixing and remixing pigments before he ever put brush to canvas. The failure to properly draw or paint the images in his mind’s eye would leave him frustrated and petulant, demanding another trip to the National Gallery, where he could genuflect before the masters and ask again and again how they did it. 

His best friend, Helen, a devotee of Georgia O’Keefe, would join him in his room, where they paged through large glossy picture books, ogling the works of their idols and practically fondling the slick pages. Harry was sometimes tempted to fondle Helen, who’d generously offered to pose naked for him. They’d tried it once, and while Harry had been fascinated with the sense of a body fighting between the flatness of youth and the curves of a woman, he was never able to communicate that feeling to his sketch-pad. Instead they held each other tightly, always while fully clothed and shed bitter adolescent tears over the futility of achieving artistic transcendence. 

Music was another matter altogether. Mother had made sure his nursery was full of Mozart and Beethoven. He found the beauty of harmony as great a source of joy as the visual expressions of the Impressionists. The production of sounds didn’t necessarily come any easier, but he was willing to work harder for them. He sang tenor in the choir at St. Matthews, at least until puberty came along with other ideas. 

By that time, he’d started piano lessons. Unlike his flirtation with the easel and sketch-pad, this love seemed at least partially requited. In return he found a genuine work ethic when it came to practise. His school grades suffered and Papa huffed a bit over his paper, but Mother was thrilled. She brought him extra scones with his afternoon tea, for which he would take a short break from his scales and arpeggios. 

The scones, and especially the raspberry jam, were also a favorite of Mr. Frederick Westerfield, Harry’s piano teacher. Frederick’s passion for the purity of melody matched his own, but he also attempted to introduce Harry to the possibilities of beauty in dissonance. Harry tried, but couldn’t find anything to love in the angry chords of Stravinsky and the aggressive ugliness of Schoenberg. Mr. Westerfield smiled fondly, shook his mane of shaggy hair and told him to focus on Chopin. 

Harry did notice a certain resemblance between pictures of Frédéric François and the youthful face of Mr. Westerfield, especially the full lips. When he played a piece well, and Mr. Westerfield smiled his shy approval, Harry felt as though Chopin himself was giving him the thumbs up from beyond the grave, assuming they did that sort of thing in the 1840’s. 

For the recital at the end of the school year, Mr. Westerfield chose Opus 43: Tarantelle in A-flat major. Lyrical, lively, and a definite challenge, requiring extra hours of practice and more time at the piano in the front room. Mr. Westerfield practically wore a path in the carpet from pacing back and forth, conducting an orchestra in his head and wincing in visible pain when Harry missed a note or couldn’t manage Chopin’s fierce tempos. He was never anything but encouraging and Harry so desperately wanted to see the soft dreamy smile that meant he’d got it right. 

On the evening of the recital, Mr. Westerfield joined him for a last rehearsal that left both of them somewhat disheartened. There was a section, just before the coda, that continued to elude him. A moment that seemed to encapsulate Chopin’s joy in the act of creativity, his love for passionate dancing he’d observed in the Italian court and his sly humor by cramming in so many notes it was nearly impossible to play.

Even when Harry was able to play all the notes, he was never able to keep the panic out of his performance, and he knew Mr. Westerfield was concerned. This was their last dance, as it were, or at least a final Tarantella. He was leaving in the fall for Eton and he didn’t want to go without proving himself. 

Mr. Westerfield clasped both of Harry’s hands between his and looked into his eyes. 

“You have the gift, Harry. You can do this. I know you can. Go out there and make me proud.” 

When his time came to take the stage, Harry could barely hear the applause, as it was drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. 

For a second he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to do it at all, until he spotted Mr. Westerfield in the wings, exactly in Harry’s sight line. He was only vaguely aware of Helen, seated beside him, in her capacity as his page-turner. In all honestly, the piece was so complex that if he actually needed to look at the music, he’d be in trouble anyway. She was mostly there for moral support, but Harry’s nerves had gone past the ability of Helen’s presence to provide any comfort.

It was only seeing Mr. Westerfield, with his hands jammed deeply into his jacket pockets, and his most intense expression of concentration on his face, that gave Harry the confidence to go on. He took a deep breath and his hands found the keys for the opening notes. 

From then on, he was in a trance. Harry’s fingers flew over the keys, hitting every note with purity and grace, keeping perfect tempo and giving Chopin’s work the performance he hoped Mr. Westerfield had envisioned when he chose the piece. It was an amazing feeling, magnified by sharing it both with the audience and with his teacher, whose gaze he held throughout the performance. 

At the end, he found himself shaking, covered in perspiration and giddy in a way he’d never felt before. He rose to the applause, barely feeling Helen’s affectionate squeeze of his shoulder. Before he could face the auditorium and take his bows, Harry needed to thank the man who had made it possible. 

All he meant to do was give him a hug of gratitude for and relief. He embraced Mr. Westerfield, and felt him trembling through his slightly oversized tweed. It was when he felt the softness of lips pressed against his own that Harry realised he’d actually kissed the teacher and immediately pulled away. His fellow students were staring in disbelief and the applause was calling him out to the stage to acknowledge what he, what _they_ had accomplished. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped. 

Mr. Westerfield, Frederick, the teacher, soon to be a friend named Freddy, looked down for a second. Then he pulled Harry closer to him so he could whisper something in his ear, before sending him back on stage to accept his ovation. 

“Don’t be.” 

@@@@@

Chapter 3-Rock Me

Donna Sheridan had the most beautifully sad shoulders Harry had ever seen. 

He wanted to paint her the moment he first spotted her from behind. She was wearing a blue-green sundress, looking in the shop windows on the rue de la Paix. Something about her slow pace amid the frenzy of summer tourists, and the listless way she lifted a cigarette to her lips, indicated a profound sorrow. Harry followed her for blocks, working up the nerve to speak to her, but afraid she would turn around before he was ready. 

Harry had read the classics and played in a band. He’d even managed to hold his own with the resident wits of Queen’s College, but the idea of speaking to whatever female possessed those divine scapula had him at a loss for words in any language. He desperately wanted to reach out and offer solace for whatever loss she had suffered, but could only imagine that she would think him a pervert and assail him with a volley of vituperative French or perhaps Italian and then all would be lost. 

Finally, he came up with what he thought was a plausible opening line and found himself standing next to her at the stoplight of a large intersection. This was it, he thought to himself, just spit it out Harry. _Le temps de respirer et le temps de vivre._

He actually looked at the woman’s face, and found himself dumbstruck again, she was even sadder than he’d first suspected, and far more beautiful, like something by one the pre-Raphaelites. Before he could bring himself to open his mouth, a Japanese man carrying a shopping bag from the Musée d'Orsay gift-shop, who’d been waiting for the opportunity to cross the street, fell to his knees and let out a keening wail of despair. 

Harry had seen this sort of thing before, although the case at hand was rather extreme. Something about facing the reality of Paris, drove certain Japanese visitors a bit round the bend. Harry knelt down to help the gentleman at the same time as the woman with the divine shoulder blades. She seemed even more distraught than the stricken tourist. 

“Oh mon dieu! Êtes-vous d'accord? Quel est le problème?” she babbled, before she ran out of applicable phrases from her guide book, or possibly realised that using them on a nearly shell-shocked Japanese tourist wouldn’t be terribly helpful.

She looked at Harry helplessly. He stared into her captivating blue eyes for a moment, before remembering there was an actual crisis.

“I’m Harry Bright,” he announced, in order to immediately establish his Britishness, and let her know that she could cease struggling with French language, in what was clearly a losing battle. 

“Donna Sheridan,” she replied, and another moment of eye contact passed, until they both realised that the Japanese tourist was now curled up on the sidewalk in the fetal position. 

“It’s Paris Syndrome,” he explained, and she nodded her head as if it made sense. “Help me get him up.” 

It took some time, but Donna was gentle and patient and eventually they got the trembling gentleman to his feet and into a cab with instructions to take him to the Japanese Embassy.

They both watched the cab drive away and Harry was afraid that Donna would take her leave as well. He couldn’t let her go. He had every intention of asking her to join him for lunch at nearby bistro, or even just to sit out at a café for some espresso. Instead he blurted out the question that had been on his mind since he first saw the slight slump of her shoulders. 

“Why are you so sad?”

He expected her to argue the point, or run away, or call a gendarme, but she merely said, “And why are you so angry?”

“Ah,” he replied, wondering how she could have read him so well, completely losing sight of the fact that he was wearing his leather jacket, denims and boots. Of course this made him nearly identical to most of the young people on the streets of Paris at the time, but she was spot on. He _was_ angry. Furious, in fact. Angry at Margaret Thatcher and the people who’d put her in power. Angry at his father. Angry at the future that was waiting for him after Uni. “Come have dinner with me and I’ll tell you about it.”

“All right,” she agreed, giving him the address of the youth hostel where she was staying, but Harry was unwilling to let her out of his sight. He continued walking with her and explained how he’d come home from Cambridge ready to pursue a career in music. Piano had given way to bass guitar and Chopin had been replaced by Chuck Berry, Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones. He’d played in a band at school, entertaining fellow students and convincing himself he had a future. 

Father had other ideas. There was an opening being held for Harry at Barclay’s, and he was expected to take it. 

“Banking!” he exclaimed, still feeling the rage and the disgust. “So I did what any self-respecting rocker would do. I grew my hair long and stomped off to spend a gap-year in Europe.” 

“Painting your heart’s desire?”

“Not much painting right now,” Harry answered, not mentioning that her shoulders were the first true inspiration he’d had since getting to Paris. “Actually at the moment, I have a gig playing bass for Johnny Hallyday during the summer season at Olympia. Will you come? Tonight, I mean.”

“Only if promise to show me Notre Dame tomorrow.”

“You’ve seen it already, surely.”

“But I want to see it with you.” 

“Will you tell me why you’re so sad?”

“Maybe I’m not quite so sad anymore.”

Seeing her smile, as she tilted her head, and the setting sun glinting on her hair, made him feel a bit less angry.

He’d fallen in love with Donna, but it never occurred to him to make love to her until he thought she was gone from his life forever. She still wouldn’t tell him the cause of her sadness, but Harry knew a broken heart when he saw one. It was always there, just under the surface, even when they were laughing, dancing and drinking together. It was no surprise that the first song she learned to play on the guitar he got her was an old blues number. 

Harry could amuse her with songs, share the glory of Paris with her and even hold her late into the night as the sat in their favorite café near the Seine watching the lighted boats on the water. He couldn’t heal what was damaged inside her.

It was nearly autumn, time for Harry to decide whether he would fulfill his father’s ambition for him, or go running further away. Time to say good-bye to Donna, to the happiness he felt, just knowing she was out there watching him play his solo during “Lolita.” 

He couldn’t face it…didn’t want to let any of it go. He was entranced by the softness of her hand in his, the blood-pounding power of the speakers, Johnny’s fierce sexuality on stage, Donna’s soft sighs every time they found a new corner of the city to explore, even the way Donna was able to laugh off an attempted pass from the man most Frenchwomen and not a few Frenchmen were said to lust after. 

They were at the party following the last show at Olympia and Harry didn’t know what he was going to do next. He needed to say goodbye to Donna, but before he had a chance to make himself heard or offer a toast to…whatever they’d had together, she announced she was leaving.

“I care about you too much. It’s not fair. I’m not….I’m sorry.”

She ran away, leaving him wondering what he’d done, and how it could possibly end like this.

After a night of drinking, he made his way to her hostel, ready to do anything to make her stay, even propose. She’d already gone, but there was a forwarding address, or at least the name of an Island: Kalokairi.

He’d always understood there was someone else in her heart, but now it didn’t matter. Maybe he was too late and maybe she would tell him that she didn’t feel that way. If that were the case he’d go back to London and do what his father wanted, but he had to try. 

Donna was the first woman he’d ever loved, and Harry was going to show her exactly how much. 

@@@@@

Chapter 4-What Is Right and What Is Wrong?

Summer nights did funny things to a man.

Harry knew he absolutely shouldn’t go out on a “school night.” There was a board meeting in the morning and he had to present estimates for the next quarter that weren’t necessarily going to put the smiles on the faces of the investors. 

“No. Absolutely not,” he said firmly, when Nina showed up at his flat and announced that her driver was waiting outside and the dance floor at Fridge was calling them. 

“Oh, come on, darling. Who could sleep in this heat anyway?”

She had a point. Typical London weather. It was hot and humid out, and not much better inside, even with air conditioning. He’d been planning to go over the figures one more time and then go to bed, but with Nina leaning languidly against his door jam and urging him to get dressed for a night on the town, he couldn’t resist. 

He didn’t love Nina, but she certainly made a most agreeable companion. It worked out well for both of them. She needed a stage to replace the dreams of ballet stardom that had ended with adolescence. Harry had no intention of deliberately deceiving anyone, but he liked to go out now and then, and having Nina on his arm made life that much easier. 

Nina understood him, and on the odd occasion he met someone in the clubs, she’d gracefully recede into the distance and give him the space he needed, although she was likely to ring up the next day and ask for a blow by blow description. Harry, being a gentleman, would generally decline, although the odd bit of anatomical gossip might be shared, just to be a good sport.

If once or twice happened to wake up in the same bed, well that was just late hours and perhaps a few too many drinks.

 

The whole thing was so perfect that Harry was actually considering suggesting marriage, even though in his heart he didn’t think it was fair, certainly not to Nina, even if she did know exactly what she was getting into. On the other hand, people _were_ starting to wonder when he’d settle down. Perhaps it wasn’t completely a coincidence that Nina worked in the Public Relations department of Barclay’s. 

Harry gave in, as he nearly always did. He’d call it a night early, or at least earlier than usual, he told himself. After all, they were only going out to dance. He felt a bit of rain hit his white cotton shirt and khaki trousers in the few steps between the car and the front doors of Trade.

Once inside, it was hard to remember that the idea had been to escape the heat. Even though it was only Thursday, rather than one of the themed nights such as Love Muscle, the floor was already packed and dancers were everywhere. He could see Nina, throwing off her corporate shackles and instantly becoming the ballerina of her heart and it was a beautiful thing. Terpsichore had never really been his particular muse but with Nina nearby and a sympathetic DJ in the booth, he could manage not to feel a total prat. 

“Love Shine a Light” was impossible to avoid, even four months after Eurovision. The part of himself that had been Head-banger Harry, immediately snorted in derision, but the thing was undeniably catchy and perfectly suited to his and Nina’s dancing style.

Harry was comfortably in the groove when Nina stopped dead in her tracks. 

“Bloody hell. Look who’s here!” 

Who, exactly, he wondered could get that reaction out of the same Nina who’d grown up around minor nobility and currently counted rock stars and footballers among her social circle. He swung her around to get a better look and then he had to agree, “Good lord!”

After all the headlines and injunctions, the brief flashes on telly, it was a shock to see him in the flesh, striding across the dance floor in what was arguably the second most famous gay bar in London wearing. 

“Looks better than his pictures,” Harry muttered, not sure if Nina could even hear him. There was a grace about the man, and the attractiveness that came with power, not to mention a well-cut Savile row suit. 

“Not bad,” she shouted, just as Katrina gave way to the Spice Girls. The Minister Without Portfolio, having made his own reconnaissance mission of Fridge, was leaning against the bar in what Harry recognised as a classic cruising posture, from which he appeared to have Harry and Nina in his sights.

“Is he still watching?” Harry shouted over “2 Become 1.” 

Nina nodded, before taking the lead and maneuvering him in the general direction of the bar where a certain New Labour big shot was waiting with both his glass and his eyebrows raised. 

“Trip to the loo,” she said meaningfully, leaving Harry stood at the bar next to the man whose personal life everyone knew about, even if it couldn’t even be mentioned by the BBC. All right, this would be interesting. 

Harry signaled to a bartender who quickly produced a vodka tonic and indicated that the drink had already been paid for. 

“She’s pretty,” the man next to him commented drily. Harry assumed he was referring to Helen, who was still visible, heading toward the lady’s lavatory, located on the upper level of the club. 

“She’s a friend,” Harry replied. “A good friend,” he added for emphasis.

“Are you a bit of a Tommy Two-ways, then?” Harry didn’t bother answering. “I’ve had good friends like that. You can end up hurting them in the end.” 

An unpleasant truth that Harry would just as soon avoid. He changed the topic by formally introducing himself.  
“Harry Bright.” 

The gentleman who needed no introduction nodded. “Barclays?”

Harry nodded. 

“You’ve made a name for yourself already.”

“A good one, I hope?” Probably an odd thing to be saying under the circumstances, but still something he cared about. 

“Madness, isn’t it?” the man said, before tossing back the contents of his glass and silently requesting another one. Harry wondered if he was talking about the newest Northern Ireland initiative, the NHS cuts or just the sight of Fridge on a summer night in August. 

Harry shrugged, leading his drinking companion to lay a hand on his and look him right in the eye. 

“Going home alone tonight, I mean.”

There it was. Cards on the table, as it were. 

“I’m not…” he started, and stopped for another sip and maybe some extra courage. 

“Is your friend coming back or do you have a signal? I always had signals. So many games you have to play, aren’t there Harry?”

Harry looked at the man’s hand and then up into his eyes again. That meeting in the morning seemed less and less important.

“You don’t need to be quite so repressed.”

“Not repressed, just discreet,” he shot back. “Not all of us can keep our private lives from being mentioned on the BBC, can we, _Peter_?”

“Not all of us have private lives that the BBC cares about. And if your private life _were_ part of my private life…”

Harry shook his head to clear it a bit. Pulling at this level was a new experience for him. He didn’t know what precisely he was meant to do about it.

“Don’t you have a country to run?” he said, feeling rather bold. 

“It’s Tony’s job to run the country. My job is to run Tony.” 

“I used to run with Tony, back in the day,” Harry offered, not sure if this name drop would impress Peter or not. He couldn’t imagine that the Prime Minister would remember him, much bother to mention his name to a trusted political operative.

“Right, Harry. I hear you used to play a mean bass-line.”

Harry bit down on his lower lip to hold back any exclamations of surprise at this tidbit. He was afraid he might stammer. 

“I don’t get to play m-m-uch anymore. Too busy.”

“Is there time in your busy schedule for the most hated man in government?”

People didn’t really talk like that, did they? Apparently this one did and he expected an answer.

“Not exactly waiting for a bus here, am I?” 

“Ooh! Cheeky. I like that,” said Peter, showing a far more campy side than Harry would ever have imagined. 

Harry smiled back. Knowing that he might be going home with Peter felt good. Maybe it was time for Helen to find someone else to dance with. Someone who could properly appreciate her. Tomorrow, he’d have quite a story to share. 

Sod the bloody board meeting. 

@@@@@

Chapter 5-Arrival

“I’m too old for this,” Harry muttered, as he watched the rain splash against the side of Sam’s rented car. 

Sam was driving him to Heathrow, which was just as well since at the moment Harry wasn’t sure he could find his own front door, much less the M25. He wasn’t really hung-over from the previous night’s festivities, just oddly melancholy and, of course, apprehensive. 

It had been a lovely party at the old family home in Surrey. Papa was getting on a bit and Harry had been spending more and more time there taking care of him. Family and old friends had come, sensing that Papa might be celebrating his last New Years, while the new “family” he’d acquired in Greece had brought youth and exuberance back to the front parlour. 

It had been great seeing how happy Sophie and Sky were, having clearly made the right decision about their lives. They absolutely glowed with love and the sense of freedom. He’d listened to the stories of their travels and nearly lost track of the places they’d seen in the last six months. 

He envied them the conviction, the passion, the youth…and then he told himself to stop brooding and went about enjoying the spectacle of Rosie and Tanya at the piano, banging out their old numbers, with Sam gamely filling in the missing third voice since Donna was still back on Kalokairi, taking care of the hotel’s New Year’s guests. Harry couldn’t help noticing that the dogs had taken that moment to hide in the kitchen. 

He’d shared a few raised eyebrows with Bill, who could only shrug and smile. It was rather sweet how he seemed to have become enchanted with Rosie, almost against his own will. Harry wondered what Mr. Westerfield would make of the scene. It wouldn’t be that hard to track Freddy down he thought, but perhaps it wasn’t the best time to be looking up old loves. 

There were only two faces absent on New Year’s Eve, one was Donna’s and the other was the most important of all. He’d be there the next day, and Harry couldn’t forget it.

Petros was coming to London. Coming to be with him. It was an exhilarating and terrifying notion. That’s why Sam had come out a few days ahead of Donna and was now driving him to the airport to meet them both. To meet the boy whose spell he had fallen under in one night, but who had spent the next six months courting him with letters, post-cards and eventually phone calls, of such duration they must have made British Telecom weep with joy. 

It was the calls, the sound of Petros’ voice and most of all the words they’d finally said late one night, in a near whisper, that pushed Harry to make this happen. 

He’d managed to pull a favour from his friend in government, who generously wished him the best while getting the work visa approved. “Good for you, Harry,” he said, with more confidence than Harry felt. 

He’d told Helen who looked shocked and Nina who cried in delight and demanded to be invited to the wedding or at least to approve the guest list. Papa wasn’t clear on very much these days, but he knew a friend from Greece would be coming to stay on an extended holiday. That was enough for now. 

Everything was in place. Too bad he was scared out of his bloody mind. 

“You’re never too old for love,” insisted Sam. He’d claimed he had business to attend to and friends to see, but Harry had no doubt that Donna had sent him along to help Harry prepare emotionally. 

“What’s it like? With you and Donna…at our age, I mean.” Harry was embarrassed to be asking the question, but who else could he talk to? What had happened on the Island had changed them all, but in some ways revealed who they truly were. Sam was his friend now, possibly the only one who understood what he might be going through. 

“You know Donna,” Sam replied, as the first signs indicated their proximity to the airport. “I’m grateful every day that we managed to find each other again. If you and Petros have a fraction of that, you’ll be a lucky man. 

“But what if…” He stopped himself there. He remembered all those conversations. Petros was young, but he knew so much, and wanted to learn from Harry as well. Donna had been coaching him in English, while Harry had taken a night course in basic Greek. If communication broke down all together, well there was always the way they’d managed to “talk” before they’d said much beyond a drinks order. He hoped it would be enough. He had to believe it would be. 

He’d only felt exactly like this a few times in his life, one being the day he’d gone to pursue Donna and even that had been more out of fear than love; he knew that now. Yes, he was scared, but he was also soaring inside. Planes were flying overhead, like eagles, and one of them was bringing Petros to him. Harry wanted to fly too.

“Nothing promised; no regrets,” Sam said, reminding him of the lessons learned that summer, and Harry knew he was right. All he and Petros had was the chance and they’d be fools not to take it. 

The plan was for Sam to park the car and then find Harry, Donna and Simon after customs. It had taken another favor for Harry to get permission to be at the actual Arrivals gate, complete with a bottle of Champagne.

He checked his image in the rear-view mirror one more time. Putting away the insecurity, he tried to see the man Petros had seen that first night. This was the man he’d become. Not the boy who’d kissed his piano teacher or the angry rocker who’d chased Donna Sheridan to a beautiful Greek island and not even the man about town who’d happily shagged the most notorious politician in Her Majesty’s Government. 

Speaking of Peter, when he’d rung back to confirm that Petros’ visa was taken care of, he’d added one admonishment, “Don’t cock this up, Harry.” 

Good advice from a man who knew a few things about cock-ups. 

“Are you ready?” Sam asked pulling up to the curb. Harry nodded, and took the Champagne bottle from the back seat. This was really it. Harry’s turn to spread his wings. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I’ll see you at customs, then. Good luck Harry, and Happy New Year!”


End file.
